A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution, Paris,
1921. This small volume of stories was written by the whiteguard Arkady
Averchenko, whose rage rises to the pitch of frenzy. It is interesting to
note how his burning hatred brings out the remarkably strong and also the
remarkably weak points of this extremely capably written book. When the
author takes for his stories subjects he is unfamiliar with, they are
inartistic. An example is the story showing the home life of Lenin and
Trotsky. There is much malice, but little truth in it, my dear Citizen
Averchenko! I assure you that Lenin and Trotsky have many faults in all
respects, including their home life. But to describe them skilfully one must
know what they are. This you do not know.

But most of the stories in the book deal with subjects Arkady Averchenko
is very familiar with, has experienced, given thought to and felt. He
depicts with amazing skill the impressions and moods of the representative
of the old, rich, gorging and guzzling Russia of the landowners and
capitalists. That is exactly what the revolution must look like to the
representatives of the ruling classes. Averchenko’s burning hatred
makes some—in fact most—of his stories amazingly vivid. There
are some really magnificent stories, as, for example, ’Grass Trampled
by Jackboots”, which deals with the psychology of children who have
lived and are living through the Civil War.

But the author shows real depth of feeling only when he talks about food;
when he relates how the rich people fed in old Russia, how they had snacks
in Petrograd—no, not in Petrograd, in St. Petersburg—costing
fourteen and a half rubles, fifty rubles, etc. He describes all this in
really voluptuous terms. These things he knows well; these things he has
experienced; here he makes no mistakes. His knowledge of the subject and his
sincerity are most extraordinary.

In his last story, “Fragments of the Shattered”, he describes
an ex-Senator in the Crimea, in Sevastopol, who was rich, generous and
well-connected”, but who is “now a day labourer at the artillery
dumps, unloading and sorting shells and an ex-director of a vast steel plant
which was considered to be the largest works in Vyberg District. Now he is a
salesman at a shop which sells second-hand goods on commission, and has
lately even acquired a certain amount of experience in fixing the price of
ladies’ second-hand robes and plush teddy-bears that people bring to
be sold on commission.”

The two old fogies recall the old days, the St. Petersburg sunsets, the
streets, the theatres and, of course, the meals at the “Medved
“, “Vienna”, “Maly Yaroslavets”, and similar
restaurants. And they interrupt their reminiscences to exclaim: “What
have we done to deserve this? How did we get in anyone’s way? Who did
we interfere with’ Why did they treat Russia so?”…

Arkady Averchenko is not the one to understand why. The workers and
peasants, however, seem to understand quite easily and need no
explanations.

In my opinion some of these stories are worth reprinting. Talent should
be encouraged.